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Updated: July 12, 2025
"Look 'ere!" he said at last, with an air of great explicitness, "I GOT the secret." "Yes." "But I don't want the name of Butteridge to appear see? I been thinking that over." "A little delicacy?" "Exactly. You buy the secret leastways, I give it you from Bearer see?" His voice failed him a little, and the stare continued. "I want to do the thing Enonymously. See?" Still staring.
He omitted the matter of the Prince and the Butteridge aspect of the affair, not out of any deep deceitfulness, but because he felt the inadequacy of his narrative powers.
Butteridge, and the extraordinary terms he demanded for the secret of his machine. For it was a secret and he kept it secret in the most elaborate fashion.
With that he could buy house and garden, buy new clothes beyond dreaming, buy a motor, travel, have every delight of the civilised life as he knew it, for himself and Edna. Of course, risks were involved. "I'll 'ave old Butteridge on my track, I expect!" He meditated upon that. He declined again to despondency. As yet he was only in the beginning of the adventure.
The exact particulars of the similarity never came to light, but apparently the lady had, in a fit of high-minded inadvertence, had gone through the ceremony of marriage with, one quotes the unpublished discourse of Mr. Butteridge "a white-livered skunk," and this zoological aberration did in some legal and vexatious manner mar her social happiness.
He would make this appalling viscus beat and throb before the shrinking journalists no uncle with a big watch and a little baby ever harped upon it so relentlessly; whatever evasion they attempted he set aside. He "gloried in his love," he said, and compelled them to write it down. "That's of course a private affair, Mr. Butteridge," they would object. "The injustice, sorr, is public.
He was as his State had made him, and the reader must not imagine because he was a little Cockney cad, that he was absolutely incapable of grasping the idea of the Butteridge flying-machine. But he found it stiff and perplexing.
The girl never stirred. And once they passed a madman singing. And at last they found the President hiding in a small saloon upon the outskirts of a place called Pinkerville on the Hudson, and gave the plans of the Butteridge machine into his hands. And now the whole fabric of civilisation was bending and giving, and dropping to pieces and melting in the furnace of the war.
Her head lolled back against the padded corner of the car, and her eyes were shut and her mouth open. "Me dear!" said Mr. Butteridge, in a common, loud voice, "we're safe!" She gave no sign. "Me dear!" said Mr. Butteridge, in a greatly intensified loud voice, "we're safe!" She was still quite impassive. Then Mr. Butteridge showed the fiery core of his soul.
"Crikey!" said Bert, overwhelmed. "I peg your pardon?" "Jest a twinge," said Bert, raising his hand to his bandaged head. "Ah! Also I am instructed to say that as for that noble, unrightly accused laty you haf championed so brafely against Pritish hypocrisy and coldness, all ze chivalry of Chermany is on her site." "Lady?" said Bert faintly, and then recalled the great Butteridge love story.
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